And as it came on towards him, with its teeth The body of a slain goat did it tear, 450 The blood whereof in its hot jaws did seethe, And on its tongue he saw the smoking hair; Then his heart sank, and standing trembling there, Throughout his mind wild thoughts and fearful ran, "Some fiend she was," he said, "the bane1 of man." Yet he abode her still, although his blood Curdled within him: the thing dropped the goat, And creeping on, came close to where he stood, And raised its head to him, and wrinkled throat; Then he cried out and wildly at her smote, 460 Shutting his eyes, and turned, and from the place Ran swiftly, with a white and ghastly face. But little things rough stones and treetrunks seemed, And if he fell, he rose and ran on still; No more he felt his hurts than if he As for the man, who knows what things he bore? What mournful faces peopled the sad night, What wailings vexed him with reproaches sore, What images of that nigh-gained delight! What dreamed caresses from soft hands and white, Turning to horrors ere they reached the best; What struggles vain, what shame, what huge unrest? 490 No man he knew, three days he lay and raved, And cried for death, until a lethargy Fell on him, and his fellows thought him saved; But on the third night he awoke to die; And at Byzantium doth his body lie Between two blossoming pomegranate trees, Within the churchyard of the Genoese. (1868) GARETH AND LYNETTE ALFRED TENNYSON [Tennyson's Idylls of the King, from which this and the two following poems are taken, tell the story of King Arthur, whom medieval romance_celebrates as the hero-king of early Britain. Throughout the poems there is a blending of ordinary traditional story with mystical, miraculous elements, and these elements Tennyson used to symbolize moral and spiritual truths. Thus Arthur is, in one aspect of the story, a normal human king, the son of Uther Pendragon, and in another aspect a person of miraculous birth, come to set up a kingdom of purity and righteousness in Britain, especially through the agency of the ideal knights of the Round Table. The opposition to him on the part of the heathen and of all evil men, Tennyson explains as symbolic of "sense at war with soul,"-"sense" meaning the low desires of the animal or "beast" element in man. The present poem is an episode representative of the brightest days of the Arthurian reign, and Gareth is typical of youth winning its spurs of knighthood. In particular, the struggle against the evil knights of Morning, Noon, and Evening (see lines 619 and 1174) symbolizes the overcoming of the temptations of youth, middle life, and old age.] The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent, And tallest, Gareth, in a showerful spring Stared at the spate. A slender-shafted pine Lost footing, fell, and so was whirled away. I spate. Swollen river. it, 50 Then were I wealthier than a leash of kings.' But ever when he reached a hand to climb, One, that had loved him from his childhood, caught And stayed him, 'Climb not lest thou break thy neck, I charge thee by my love,' and so the boy, Sweet mother, neither clomb, nor brake his neck, But brake his very heart in pining for it, And passed away." To whom the mother said, "True love, sweet son, had risked himself and climbed, And handed down the golden treasure to him." 60 And both thy brethren are in Arthur's hall, Albeit neither loved with that full love And thee, mine innocent, the jousts, the wars, Who never knewest finger-ache, nor pang Of wrenched or broken limb-an often chance In those brain-stunning shocks, and tourney-falls, Frights to my heart; but stay: follow the deer By these tall firs and our fast-falling burns;2 90 So make thy manhood mightier day by day; Sweet is the chase: and I will seek thee out Some comfortable bride and fair, to grace Thy climbing life, and cherish my prone 3 year, Till falling into Lot's forgetfulness I know not thee, myself, nor anything. Stay, my best son! ye are yet more boy than man." I brand. Sword. 2 burns. Brooks. 3 prone. Falling. Then Gareth, "An ye hold me yet for child, Hear yet once more the story of the child. For, mother, there was once a King, like ours, 100 The prince his heir, when tall and marriageable, Asked for a bride; and thereupon the King Set two before him. One was fair, strong, armed— But to be won by force-and many men Desired her; one, good lack, no man desired. And these were the conditions of the King: That save he won the first by force, he needs Must wed that other, whom no man desired, A red-faced bride who knew herself so vile, That evermore she longed to hide her self, 110 Nor fronted man or woman, eye to eyeYea-some she cleaved to, but they died of her. And one-they called her Fame-and one -O Mother, How can ye keep me tethered to youShame. Man am I grown, a man's work must I do. Follow the deer? follow the Christ, the King, Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the King Else, wherefore born?" To whom the mother said, "Sweet son, for there be many who deem him not, Or will not deem him, wholly proven King 120 Albeit in mine own heart I knew him King, When I was frequent, with him in my youth, And heard him Kingly speak, and doubted him No more than he, himself; but felt him mine, Of closest kin to me: yet-wilt thou leave Thine easeful biding here, and risk thine all, Life, limbs, for one that is not proven King? Silent awhile was Gareth, then replied, "The thrall in person may be free in soul. And I shall see the jousts. Thy son am I, And since thou art my mother, must obey. I therefore yield me freely to thy will; For hence will I, disguised, and hire myself To serve with scullions and with kitchenknaves; Nor tell my name to any-no, not the King." Gareth awhile lingered. The mother's eye, Full of the wistful fear that he would go, 170 And turning toward him whereso'er he turned, Perplexed his outward purpose, till an hour, When, wakened by the wind which with full voice Swept bellowing thro' the darkness on to dawn, He rose, and out of slumber calling two That still had tended on him from his birth, Before the wakeful mother heard him, went. The three were clad like tillers of the soil. Southward they set their faces. The birds made Melody on branch, and melody in mid air. 180 The damp hill-slopes were quickened into green, And the live green had kindled into flowers, For it was past the time of Easterday. So, when their feet were planted on the plain That broadened toward the base of Camelot, Far off they saw the silver-misty morn Rolling her smoke about the Royal mount, That rose between the forest and the field. |